


Aneurin Abergavenny's Avenging Angel

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [85]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, London, M/M, Murder, Patricide, Scotland, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A killer commits four murders before Sherlock summons him to Baker Street – and Watson has to decide whether to let him go and commit one more!





	Aneurin Abergavenny's Avenging Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Because of the nature of some of the cases that my brother Sherlock did allow Watson to publish, a large degree of obfuscation was required to protect those who deserved and needed protecting. In this, the last year of the nineteenth century, they undertook three major cases two of which - _The Six Napoleons_ and _Thor Bridge_ \- were later published. The third was infinitely more complicated, and matters were not helped by the _”Strand”_ magazine contriving to mangle Watson's sole reference to 'the Abergavenny Murder coming up for trial'. The authorities, showing a degree of stupidity impressive even for their low standards, did indeed arrange a trial concerning the murder of Lord John Abergavenny, and Sherlock had to use some behind-the-scenes pressure to get them to drop the matter. 

Especially as they had totally the wrong killer.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

Even by the standards of my friend this was the strangest of cases, and it arose out of events some two years in the past that occurred on a small Welsh island. As a result, a man who had killed four times came into our lives – and we let him go to dispatch a fifth victim!

In 1898 Mr. Aneurin Trefforest, better known by his title of Lord Abergavenny, had been holding his sixtieth birthday party on his private island of Skarad off the Pembrokeshire coast. With him were his wife Queenie, his sons John and James, and his sister Hyacinth. Unusually there were only three servants with them, two of whom had taken the boat to the mainland and had been caught there when a storm had blown in leaving only the valet Grayling on the island. The following day the police were summonsed to find Lord Abergavenny dead, a dagger protruding from his back. There were, perhaps surprisingly, finger-prints on it, but they did not match those of any of the family members on the island. There were also indications that someone had used the small jetty around the other side of the island from the usual harbour. The popular press opined that one or more of those four people had done the deed, as all were joint beneficiaries under Lord Abergavenny's will with the valet receiving only a nominal sum for his service. But proving anything had been impossible and, predictably, the case had faded from the public consciousness to be replaced by newer horrors.

That had been the case until last week, when Mr. Acton Grayling had been found stabbed to death outside his new master's home in Swansea. And in his pocket was a note with the names of the five suspects on it, with the valet's name crossed out. The implication had been clear; for whatever reason someone was now targeting those who had been on Skarad.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Our client in this case was, as it happened, the new Lord Abergavenny. Mr. John Trefforest was an unprepossessing man of about forty years of age, with thinning dark hair and a portly figure. Like rather too many of his social standing, he seemed to be of the opinion that because he was a lord Holmes would simply _have_ to say yes to him. I expected a rapid dismissal but, to my surprise, my friend hesitated.

“You do understand”, he said, “that in the course of my investigations, all sorts of things may come out. Some even to the detriment of my client.”

“What do you mean?” the nobleman asked sharply.

“What happened on Skarad?” Holmes asked.

There was a short but definite pause before the man answered.

“I have no idea”, he said loftily. “Father went out for a walk – Lord alone knows where; the place was less than a mile across – and when he came back he went straight into his study where even the servants did not like to venture. When he did not emerge for dinner James and I went to fetch him. That was when we found him dead. As I told the police at the time the French windows were open, and the police said they thought someone may have gotten onto the island before the storm broke.”

“Indeed”, Holmes smiled. “I find your valet's death intriguing my lord, and I am prepared to accept it as my next case. May I assume that you are staying at Usk House just now?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Although if the newspapers are right, then I am out of London”, he said firmly. “I am not staying around to get murdered like poor old Grayling.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes showed our client out and returned to his chair.

“Doubtless you are surprised at me for taking this case”, he said. 

“I am a little”, I admitted. “He was not the most pleasant of people.”

“When one deals with crime as a career, one must expect that”, he said. “No, it is the fact that of the five people on that island, someone targeted the _valet_. Whether or not it was one of the remaining four, including our client – and it would not be the first time someone had attempted to use my poor talents to divert attention from their own evil deeds – the intention was clearly to instil fear in the others who were there on that fateful day.”

“I would never describe your talents as poor”, I smiled. 

“Well, I feel they will be tested here”, he said. “I wonder who did kill Lord Aneurin. The only people who had any real motive were there with him on that island.... unless....”

He stopped, then smiled.

“Yes?” I asked eagerly.

“We shall see.”

I hated it when he did that!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day I felt terrible! And it was not, as some wiseacre of a detective so cruelly suggested, that I had had a second portion of trifle at our restaurant the night before.

Perhaps also having the apple-pie I had put by when we returned to Baker Street had not been one of my better ideas. Holmes smiled far too cheerfully.

“Ah well”, he smiled. “Time to go.”

I stared at him in confusion. 

“Go where?” I asked.

“We are going to see Lady Hyacinth, our client's aunt and one of those on that ill-fated island”, he said. “We can drop your notes off at the surgery as you asked, as it is on our way. But first, we have to call in and check the contents of her late brother's will.”

I groaned at the prospect of such a journey. He just smirked.

“She lives up in Hertfordshire”, he said. “A place called Standon. Three cab rides, then a long railway journey in a bumpy coach. Not forgetting the trip back. Are you ready?”

He hated me!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was not sure which was worse; walking or being jolted in a cab. I was sure that the surgery must have moved further away from Baker Street without my being informed. My life was horrible!

When Holmes had said that we were visiting the lawyer's office, I had assumed somewhere grand that would have befitted so noble a family as the Abergavennys. Instead – and after another ride that had me seriously considering a diet - we drew up outside a small detached house in the Minories. I swatted away some horrible personage's offer of his walking-stick and managed to walk fairly steadily up the path after him, praying silently that our next cab would have better (or for that matter, any) suspension. 

We were admitted to what was obviously a private residence, and after a short while we were ushered into a small study. It was the sort of place that I would have imagined belonged to a philatelist or numismatist, and the man sat at ease at the desk was not exactly lawyerly. He was short, in his sixties and possibly Jewish, I thought. Holmes bowed.

“Mr. Ross”, he said, his tone almost reverential. The man looked at him curiously.

“You have come about the Abergavenny case”, he said. “I see that it is back in the papers; I did wonder if it might draw your attention. I presume that you wish to know about the will.”

That surprised me. Wills after all became public documents upon a person's death.

“I am”, Holmes said.

“You are as ever correct to be suspicious”, Mr. Ross said. “The published will stated that half the estate went to Lord John Abergavenny, and that the remainder was divided equally between his aunt, his mother and his younger brother.”

“Did they lie about that?” I asked, surprised. The man shook his head.

“Not as such”, he said. “There was a second will, amending the first. A tontine.”

_('Tontine' had to have been one of the deadliest words that I had come across in the cases I undertook with Holmes. It was a legal device by which people who shared in an inheritance increased their share as the others died off – or knowing the sort of persons we tended to deal with, were killed off!)_

“Oh”, Holmes said. 

He thought for a moment.

“Why was this not known when the first will was published in the newspaper?” he asked.

“That I do not know”, Mr. Ross said, “but I have a suspicion. I think that you would do well to approach Mr. Truman, the butler. He knew about the existence of the second will but, acting on instructions from his late master, he waited two weeks before speaking. I would presume that the newspaper did publish a correction as they were obliged to do, but I doubt that many people read it.”

“Lord Aneurin trusted his butler rather than his valet?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Ross nodded.

“I was surprised at that too”, he said. “I wish you well in your endeavours, gentlemen.”

Holmes bowed, placed an envelope (which I assumed contained some notes) on a side-table, and I followed him out. 

“We shall stop at a chemist's”, Holmes said, “and obtain some stomach powders. They are good for those who over-indulge.”

I would have objected to that, but I wanted those damn powders!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Bishopsgate. Bethnal Green Junction. Globe Road. Cambridge Heath. London Fields. Hackney Downs. Rectory Road. Stoke Newington. Stamford Hill. Seven Sisters. Bruce Grove. White Hart Lane. Silver Street. Lower Edmonton High Level. Southbury. Forty Hill. Turkey Street. Theobalds Grove. Cheshunt. Broxbourne. Rye House. 

Those are the twenty-one stations between Liverpool Street and St. Margaret's Junction, where we had to change for the Buntingford branch train and three more damn stops (Mardock, Widford and Hadham) before we finally reached Standon. And stop after stop, my still aching stomach got jolted even in the first class-compartment which, praise be, we had obtained. I was never eating dessert again! 

As it turned out however we were not to reach our destination. We changed trains at St. Margaret's and on the platform there I purchased a newspaper, which I was perusing as the Buntingford train was coming in. I did not get further than the second item of news, which made me gasp in shock.

“What is it?” Holmes asked.

“It seems that we are too late”, I said. “Lady Hyacinth Abergavenny was found stabbed at her home, Standon Manor, early this morning. Police suspect an intruder as a door to her private suite had been forced from the outside.” I paused before reading on, “this is the second death relating to the murder of Lord Aneurin Abergavenny some two years ago, his valet having been slain the other week.”

Holmes sighed.

“Three people left, including our client”, he said. “We must find and warn them.”

For once he was wrong. There were not three people left. There was but one.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It had been a local newspaper that I had picked up on the station platform, although I fully expected Lady Hyacinth's death to be on the front page of the evening edition of the _“Times”_. It was – but unfortunately it was not alone.

“The quality of the Thunderer is declining”, Holmes sniffed as he perused the headline 'And Then There Was One!'. Early that morning someone had stabbed Lord James Abergavenny in the street outside his Mayfair club, and then crossed quickly to Usk House where they had similarly dispatched Lady Queenie into the next world. Only by good fortune had our client Lord John been absent, having gone to visit a friend's house.

“Good fortune or design?” I wondered. “I can see why a beneficiary of Lord Aneurin's will might want to eliminate their rivals, though only the man who brought you in on the case is left now. And why kill the poor valet?”

“Possibly Grayling knew something”, Holmes said. 

I had a sudden thought.

“What about the next in line to succeed?” I asked. “If anything happens to Lord Roger, who becomes the new Lord Abergavenny?”

“I thought of that”, he sighed, “but sadly it is a dead-end. The title is male-lineage inheritance, and will die with Lord Roger unless he has children. And unless he makes his own will to change matters, Lord Aneurin's arrangements were that the estate is sold and the proceeds split equally between some eight cousins. None of them would get much, and none are in any dire financial need at the moment.”

He opened an envelope that had been lying on the table when we entered. “Hopefully this is our information on the other two staff, those who were stranded on the mainland during the murder.”

“What can they tell us?” I wondered.

“Possibly nothing”, Holmes said, “but we have little enough to go on as it is. Let us see.”

He read the letter quickly.

“The maid, Georgina Ockham. Twenty-eight at the time, and Lady Queenie's personal maid. That is odd.”

“What is?” I asked.

“Why would Lady Queenie not keep her maid after the killing?” he wondered. “Unfortunately the girl has since obtained work with a family who have decamped to India, so we shall not be able to ask her much unless we do so by telegraph. And then the butler, Mr. Raguel Truman. He organised everything for the weekend that his master was to stay on the island.”

“An unusual name”, I said. “It sounds Biblical.”

He nodded.

“The angel of vengeance”, he said. “As with the maid, I would have expected him to have remained on the island once he was there.”

“Why did they not have maids and serving-staff on the island?” I asked.

“I find that puzzling, too”, Holmes said. “But if one is planning a murder – and it would have been easy enough for one of the four to make a last-minute change in the arrangements - then one does not want any more people around than is absolutely necessary. I note that Mr. Truman is a native of the Scottish island of Coll, in Argyllshire. The late Lord Aneurin owned a large estate there – impressive given the island is less than thirty square miles in area – and Mr. Truman worked there before becoming his butler.”

“Where is he now?” I asked, as Holmes opened a telegram.

“He is Lord John's butler now”, he said, reading his message. “And headed home, by all accounts. Our client has decided that a remote Scottish island is the safest place that he could be right now, and with his butler has decamped there via the Midland and Caledonian Railway Companies. Possibly a wise move. This case is very dark Watson, and I cannot see a solution as yet.”

“Maybe Mr. Truman will turn out to be the real Raguel, the avenging angel bringing down justice on Lord Aneurin's killer”, I yawned. “Shining the light of truth into darkness. I am turning in for the evening. Goodnight.”

I did not see the strange look in his eyes as I left for my room.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I am expecting a visitor today.”

Five days had passed and Holmes had seemingly done nothing in the case. Still, at least our client had reached his island haven and was still alive, from the telegram that he had sent us. And the local constable there was monitoring the few people who came to the island by ferry each day.

“Who is it?” I asked across the breakfast table.

“A man who has killed four people already, and is about to commit murder for the fifth time”, he said calmly. 

I stared at him in astonishment.

“Who?” I asked.

“He should just be arriving at St. Pancras Station about now”, he said, evading my question. “That means that he will be here in about half an hour, maybe three-quarters if the London traffic is worse than usual. Pass the salt, please.”

I glared at him. He was being mean!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes must have alerted Mrs. Hudson as to our client's early arrival, because usually she knew not to let people ascend at this time of a morning. It was some forty minutes before we heard the tread of a man outside and the door opened to reveal a smartly-dressed gentleman of about thirty-five years of age. 

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Truman”, Holmes said politely. “Please take a seat. We shall not detain you for long as I understand that you have a lot to do.”

This must be the butler Raguel Truman, I thought. But what had Holmes meant by that remark?

“I know about the light-house keeper”, Holmes said, to my further mystification. “I only lack one piece of the puzzle, which I would ask you to provide. Why the two year delay?”

The man looked at him warily, but answered.

“Old Davy died not long after the storm”, he said, his Scots accent quite pronounced. “He didna tell his son about the letter; the boy only found it a few weeks back. He came all the way to London to bring it me.”

“What is going on?” I asked. Holmes turned to me.

“I will explain”, he said, “although I warn you Watson, this case will tax even your forbearance when we reach an outcome where the gap between justice and the law will yawn wider than it has ever done before. It all begins with a nobleman who, whilst on his island estate with four of his family and his valet, somehow learns that the five of them are conspiring to murder him and share out his wealth.”

“They thought he was safe in his study”, the butler said. “He'd left his pen in his room and went back to get it, so he heard them talking over the plot.” 

“He knows that he is doomed, for if he challenges them it is one against five”, Holmes continued. “He knows also why you and the maid have been sent to the mainland; with the storm coming in he is cut off from any help. It was assumed that the six of them were the only people on that island – but a remark from the doctor showed me that there was at least a seventh person there.”

“It did?” I asked, bewildered. He nodded.

“'Shining a light'”, he reminded me. “The position of the island was such that I was sure that there would be a light-house in the area, and sure enough it was on the island. Lord Aneurin goes out for a short walk, visits the light-house and explains to the keeper what is afoot. He writes a letter affirming the guilt of the people back at the house, then returns to meet his doom.”

I stared at him, shocked.

“The unfortunate death of the keeper hinders it”, Holmes said, “but justice is only delayed, not denied. When you receive the letter, sir, you know that your master was murdered by the four people who now share his wealth, and that the valet was surely well rewarded for his assistance in the matter. You strike down four of them leaving the one man that you are in service with, as you know that he is an easy mark.”

“He asked me to come see you today”, the butler smiled, and I felt a chill run down my spine. “To say he was well.”

“But he is doomed, is he not?” Holmes asked bluntly. The butler nodded.

“A stranger will be seen in one of the bays”, he said, “and my lord will meet the same end as his murderous kin. A life for a life.”

“Five lives for a life in this instance”, Holmes said dryly. “Mr. Truman, I have come across many killers in my time, but rarely one like your good self.”

They both turned to look at me. I did not fidget. Much.

“What?” I asked.

“If we allow this man to walk out of that door”, Holmes said calmly, “he will return to Coll and murder his master.” He turned back to the butler. “What are your plans thereafter?”

“Coll is my home”, the butler said. “I'd stay there. The allowance that Lord Aneurin left me is plenty for my few needs.”

He stood up, and I realized the import of what Holmes had said. This man would leave Baker Street and commit murder if we did not stop him. The murder of a man who had committed patricide.

We let him go.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

A few days later I was unsurprised to read in the Times that Lord John Abergavenny had been stabbed on a remote Scottish island. Police were looking for a man of foreign appearance who had been sighted by the dead man's butler, having landed a small craft in a bay on the west coast of the island and then departed.

“I doubt that they will find this 'mystery man'”, I said. I felt strange about the case; not happy that I had allowed the act, but resigned that there had been no other choice.

“His master is avenged”, Holmes said dryly. “He has what he wants. May he and Lord Aneurin both find peace.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Postscriptum: There was an unexpected complication to matters when a publicity-seeking anarchist claimed that he had killed all five Abergavennys. I suspected from the swiftness with which his trial was organized that the government was eager to rid themselves of the fellow and give him the martyrdom he so obviously sought, but Holmes had a few quite words in the right ears and the case was dropped._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
